She lay listening to the storm that still raged outside, and wondering what her aunt would think of her protracted stay, if she would be angry, or just frightened. Then her thoughts flew to Arthur Varian, his tender smiles, his bonny blue eyes. “I will never marry any man but a blue-eyed one,” she thought, thrillingly, and at last fell into a gentle doze induced by weariness, the warmth of the bed, and the dose she had swallowed. The nap lasted an hour, and when she opened her eyes Mrs. Bowles was rocking placidly by the cozy fire in the twilight. “Oh, I have been asleep! How long?” she cried, uneasily. “Most an hour. Do you feel rested?” “Oh, yes, indeed, and I’d like to get up and go home. Are my clothes dry?” “Oh, no--not yet; and as for that gray woolen frock of yours, it has shrunk that much you can never hook it up again, I can tell you that! But no matter. You’ve had it two years a’ready. I know, and it was too skimp for a growing girl, anyway. But Mrs. Varian has sent you in a suit of her clothes to put on, and when you’re dressed you are to take tea with her and her son.” “Oh, but, Mrs. Bowles, I ought to go home at once. Aunt Beck will be so uneasy over me.” “Listen to the wind and the rain, child. The storm is still raging, and the horses can’t be taken out till the weather clears up. So make your mind easy, and get up and dress, for Mrs. Varian will be in to see you presently.” Cinthia got up rather nervously, with a little dread of Mrs. Varian, whom she had seen at church and out riding--a beautiful, haughty-looking woman, with olive skin and flashing dark eyes, very young looking to have a grown son of twenty-three or four. “I would rather have my own clothes,” she said pleadingly. “They are all over mud and water, child, and I don’t think the maid can have them fit for you till to-morrow. Mrs. Varian very kindly offered the loan of hers, and unless you wear them, you’ll have to go to bed again, that’s all. Here, let me help you,” said Mrs. Bowles, beginning to slip the garments over Cinthia’s shining head. “But this crimson silk with white lace trimmings--it is too fine for me, dear Mrs. Bowles.” “It can’t be helped, for this is more likely to fit--too tight in the waist for her, she said, and she never wore it but twice; and see, it laps over two inches on you. But I can hide that with the lace at the neck and the bow at the waist. Now let me comb your hair loose over your shoulders, it’s so damp yet. My! how it crimples up and curls, and shines in the light! You look well, Cinthy Dawn!” She would have said _beautiful_, but she was mindful of Mrs. Flint’s objection, though she said to herself: